"Yah,go 'ome an'wash yer neck!"shouted Chook,with sudden venom.
The red-headed girl stood silent,searching her mind for a stinging retort.
"Yer'd catch yer death o'cold if yer washed yer own,"she cried;and the two passed out of sight,tittering.Chook turned to his mates.
"She kin give it lip,can't she?"said he,in admiration.
A moment later the leader of the Push crossed the street,and took his place in silence under the veranda.A first glance surprised the eye,for he was a hunchback,with the uncanny look of the deformed--the head,large and powerful,wedged between the shoulders as if a giant's hand had pressed it down,the hump projecting behind,monstrous and inhuman.
His face held you with a pair of restless grey eyes,the colour and temper of steel,deep with malicious intelligence.His nose was large and thin,curved like the beak of an eagle.Chook,whose acquaintance he had made years ago when selling newspapers,was his mate.Both carried nicknames,corrupted from Jones and Fowles,with the rude wit of the streets.
"Ada's lookin'fer yous,Jonah,"said Chook.
"Yer don't say so?"replied the hunchback,raising his leg to strike a match."Was Pinkey with 'er?"he added.
"D'ye mean a little moll wi'ginger hair?"asked Chook.
Jonah nodded.
"My oath,she was!Gi'me a knockout in one act,"said Chook;and the others laughed.
"Ginger fer pluck!"cried someone.
And they began to argue whether you could tell a woman's character from the colour of her hair;whether red-haired women were more deceitful than others.
Suddenly,up the road,appeared a detachment of the Salvation Army,stepping in time to the muffled beat of a drum.The procession halted at the street corner,stepped out of the way of traffic,and formed a circle.The Push moved to the kerbstone,and,with a derisive grin,awaited the performance.
The wavering flame of the kerosene torches,topped with thick smoke,shone yellow against the whiter light of the gas-jets in the shops.